


Only Skin

by annhellsing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biting, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Light Bondage, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22215421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: Geralt learns that the love of a woman can move him to completely new heights.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 232





	Only Skin

**Author's Note:**

> this is shameless smut and i'm not even a little sorry about it. geralt gets pegged, there, i said it.

And you say with the faintest shrug and a dreamy look, “what did you feel?” 

It’s with the same, reckless confidence as a knight asking to be taken to the monster. You press your forehead against the crux of the problem. You deny him any place to hide out of either selfishness or love. He defaults to the familiar answer. 

“According to some, I don’t feel anything,” he’s flat on his front, looking at you over his shoulder is beginning to ache a bit. 

But you keep a hand on his back, a steady five fingers that really mean nothing. He could break your wrist with the muscles under his skin. What you find more impressive is that he doesn’t. He’s held down by the weight of your expectations. By, he notes with a shudder, your heavy stare.

You poke at the scars, at the marks that claw up his skin. You note them like an inventory, but do not attach the name of a beast to each how some are wont to. Your fingers touch where things tried to kill him and missed. But never once do you assign any meaning beyond that, you don’t know enough to know. They’re not to be ashamed of, but they’re not to take pride in.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, because you’ve ghosted your fingertips over the three, long scratches arching over his muscled shoulder. 

“Exploring,” you reply, “women like scars, did you know that?”

“So do bards,” he replies, sounding either smug or cross. It’s difficult to tell with him. 

“It’s skin,” you say, pointedly circling your finger around a nasty bite scar at his hip, “good skin, I should add. And it’ll be skin regardless of whether I think it makes you handsome.”

“Have you decided yet?” he asks. He sounds grim, glaring at you like he wants nothing more than to bury his face in the pillow.

“I’m only curious,” you tell him, “you don’t care what I think about you.”

“You’re right about that,” he agrees, though it’s a quasi-lie. He cares enough, about some things. He wasn’t built to be handsome, bent into a stronger shape to be loved by the eyes. 

But he is. Loved by your eyes, that is, and he turns his face away from yours when you look back at him. All that adoration could melt skin. He’s not ready to be made rubble. 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” you say, your fingers move over his hips. He’s not sure why they feel like fire, warm and cold at the same time. Things that feel good often contradict. 

“Ask it again,” he hums, because admitting he’s already forgotten won’t do. You press your palm to his lower back. 

“How did you feel, the last time we did this?” you bite, putting a finer point on a question that no doubt embarrasses him.

Geralt lifts his head and braces his forearms under his chin. He stares at the headboard before finally giving in to the urge to look at you again. It’s too hard to stay away. Painful, even. And though there is something searing about your eyes, they only stare that way at him. 

“Exposed,” he says, “I still feel that way.”

“Of course you do, you’re the one who’s naked,” you chirp. And your finger playfully skirts over his bare rear, just to remind him of that.

His first thought is to protest. Not your gesture, which he accepts with another barely-repressed shiver, but your declaration. He doesn’t mind being undressed, especially not when you undress him. But this is deeper than clothes-off. He felt, feels, will feel exposed down to the bone. Like you’ve fit your fingers into his muscles and pulled them apart.

He imagines his heart to be as ugly as the rest of him. But it still bares your fingerprints. 

Geralt doesn’t correct you, he lacks the vocabulary. Instead, he rolls his eyes and pointedly shifts a little on the bed. You’ve one hand on his back and one moving very close to his bum, again. 

“We should get started,” you say, “if you’re ready.”

He is. He tells you so with a pointed grunt. He’s wanted to go for ages. Geralt’s eyes traitorously dip to your skirt, pulled up to your hips to reveal the belt fastened around your waist.

You wear it to get the giggles out, because you do find the sensation a little funny. You kissed him when the straps were all done up, before you started pulling his clothes off. 

Don’t you think it’s funny? You asked, a little awkward? 

No, he thought but didn’t say. He smiled instead, the safely crooked, twisted smile that could be mistaken for a grimace.

Now, you move between his knees. And something heavy, made of wood presses against his thigh for a moment before you’re gone. 

“Shall we go over the rules?” you ask. Necessary precautions. “Reminder that a hum can be a yes but it cannot be a no. If something troubles you, tell me directly.”

True to form, he hums. And you swat at his bare ass, not hard enough to sting. It’s no use trying to look at you any more, Geralt turns his face back to the opposing wall. 

“Can I leave bruises?” you ask, you get another hum in return, “do you want them?”

“Yes,” he says, this time out loud. He’s suddenly very glad he’s not looking at you. Enthusiasm is your territory.

“Why?” you go. He grits his teeth, doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“Because it doesn’t hurt when you do it,” he sighs. It’s as bare-bones as he can make it.

“Are you sure?” you ask, and he can hear the smile in your voice. That’s good, at least. He hasn’t shocked you. “I might not be doing it right.”

“You do,” he finally sighs, “trust me, you do.”

“All right, Geralt,” you say. Your hands are on his legs, feeling for claw marks and old scratch-wounds. There’s nearly as many as on his back. “You want it the same as before, no changes?” 

“Yes,” he says, a second time. Aren’t you lucky?

“Someone’s using their words tonight,” you’re smirking, now. He knows that shift in tone anywhere. “Is that someone wanting this very badly?”

He grunts in response, though decidedly in agreement. You giggle. 

“Open up, love,” you tell him, “I’m not done quite yet.” 

He braces himself on his elbows, nudging his legs a little further apart. Geralt feels you touching the scar just shy of his left knee, the one that bards aren’t so fond of. But, like all the rest, you note it and leave it be. 

Geralt can’t help but feel a little like clay with you prodding at him. Like at any moment you’ll start changing things around, disorganizing his outsides how you do it on the inside. 

He feels you, feels your front leaning forward a few inches. You kiss his spine, purposefully avoiding the long, jagged scar that’s nearby. 

“Should I tie you up this time?” you ask. His shoulders go a little stiff. His cock twitches and he’s thankful your eyes are elsewhere.

“Mhm,” is all he trusts himself with. 

But you don’t move to do it. You’re still hovering halfway down his spine, pressing open-mouthed kisses. Then, Geralt feels your hot teeth against his skin. Just a scrape, at first, then a nip. No proper bites, nothing meant to wound. But you kiss him until the red outline of your mouth is a fixed point. And then, you do it again, just a bit lower.

“What’s the word?” you ask, “just in case.”

“Dirt,” he says.

“And that’s for if you want me to stop,” you remind him, “without asking why.”

“Right,” Geralt confirms, because you like it when he does.

He feels your retreat. You undo the sash at your waist, the one that keeps your bodice closed. And Geralt risks his neck hurting very badly come morning to turn and look at you. 

“Give me your wrists,” you finally say. But your eyes say give me the monster, I’ll have him and hold him. And that’s not a threat. 

He doesn’t part easily with his hands, not when they’re so useful. But he drops his cheek to the pillow, he unfolds his arms and moves them behind his back. You tie him up tight, because he was cross the last time you didn’t. 

“Good,” he says without you needing to ask, as you check that his circulation won’t be cut off. 

You take a handful of his hip, adjusting where he lies by an inch. You doubt you could move him much farther. And your fingers skate over the curve of his rear again. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you were skittish.

Give it a second.

You bring your palm down on the fleshy part of his ass, a full-bodied smack echoes in the tavern room. And your giggle follows right after. There it is, he expected that. His eyes close and the only sound he makes is a sharp inhale. 

He knows you take no pleasure in hurting him. Quite the opposite. It’s why the touches you lay on him after that errant spank are gentler by far. You grab at his inner thighs, feeling the muscle underneath and the scars above.

“So lovely,” you mumble. He rolls his eyes, but knows better than to outwardly protest. 

Even with your lies, he has to appreciate how unpretentious this love is. He would be inclined to believe you worse than a deciever if you weren’t so inclined to remind him that he is not perfect. But, every so often, you indulge in romantics. Ephemeral sweetness. He’s still a man, they tug at his heart.

Your hands leave him and he knows why. It’s old news. Geralt hears your smile like a heartbeat or the thrum of blood in veins. You’re grinning as you take out the bottle of oil you keep in your pocket. 

“I love it when you get goosebumps,” you tell him. He rolls his shoulders, shifts uncomfortably on the quilt. 

To your great surprise, he gives a laugh-like grunt. A short, harsh sound but unmistakably amused. You beam even wider as you coat your index finger with your bottle’s contents. 

There’s another sound, one he can’t help when you press your finger against him. You’re careful, easing into him slowly. But he’s prone to impatience, to huffing and nudging himself back against you. You brace your other hand on his hip to keep him still. 

“Comfortable?” you ask. You’ve had him on his hands and knees before, but today’s been hard on the body. New aches and pains. You’d rather not push him for the sake of a tumble.

Geralt hums again to tell you yes. His sigh is a louder sound, a deep exhale. You know where to press up against, how to curl your fingers. And even a mountain of a man like him can’t hold it in when you’re where you need to be.

He groans under his breath when you touch the right place inside him. It’s a quick, contained by his teeth and locked away. But you heard it and know well enough to press on. 

“Let it out, love,” you tell him, but you know he won’t.

Geralt would rather not be heard by those not involved. It would be worse than mortifying, an invitation for just anyone to enjoy what’s rightfully yours. You’ve talked about finding a rock by a river, one big enough for two that you could fuck him on. And then only the forest would hear him scream. 

You’ve said nicer things, though not by much.

He feels you again somewhere else. In him, but also outside him, reaching for his cock that’s caught between his thigh and the quilt. You’re careful with him, giving only a little squeeze before taking him in your fist. 

His hips rock without meaning too. Like always, his actions shout. You give a smile he can’t see, a kiss he can feel is pressed to his lower back. 

He doesn’t know if he deserves this. You’re quick to tell him he is, quick to say he should sleep well or eat well. Be loved well. And he doesn’t know how to refute that, it makes logical sense. Anything less would be cruelty, he isn’t deserving of that. 

And yet he still doesn’t know how to breach the idea that he could be worthy of something warmer than blood.

You fit another finger inside him right as his thoughts turn ugly. Angel. You have angel-like habits, at the very least. 

He gives another hum, it’s longer than the last few. It’s not yes or no but good. But more. Duly noted. 

Geralt’s shoulders flex and relax depending on where you prod. And he thought he felt like clay before. But to writhe and shake would be a waste of energy, he allows himself his shivers but no more intense signs of anticipation. He knows what’s coming, after all.

You’re a little more insistent with your hands, pushing your fingers open and closed in him. Like you’re trying to ruin his focus. The forest sounds nice right about now. He could tell you what he really thinks. 

Someone’s talking outside the room. Singing. It grates at him, like a thin knife pressed to his temple. He can accept the sounds of other, complicated lives because it’s been posed as necessary. But in his heart, he’s a solitary creature. One companion at a time will suffice.

They’re still talking, asking questions. He doubts you can hear them, which is good. You won’t get shy out of fear of getting caught. But Geralt wishes it was your voice instead. So he opens his mouth.

“More,” he grunts and waits.

“Oh?” you ask, “you’re literally not in a position to be making demands, love.”

His eyes close. He smiles and you can’t see it. That’s better, he would rather your familiar flirtations over strange conversations. You keep him company while you make him ready.

You give him more, regardless of what you say. Though he’d like to skip to the frantic striking of your hips against his, he waits and grunts in approval when you push a third finger in him. 

It’s not his decision when he’s ready, something that grates on his nerves. But you never let him wallow for too long. Never let him lie there, rutting into the bed enough for it to be embarrassing. 

He sighs the loudest when your hand leaves him, when it pours a little extra oil on the wooden shaft between your thighs. 

“Are you ready?” you ask, flirtation still evident. But he knows you want an answer to an honest question. 

“Give it to me,” he huffs. And though it isn’t like him, he looks as best he can over his well-muscled shoulder.

You have eyes like a hare’s. Too intelligent for something otherwise innocent. And you look bashful when you fit your cock inside him. 

The force of that first thrust is gentle, even if it sends him reeling. Sends him gasping for air and gripping the ends of the sash. He knows the way out, your eyes drop to his arms. Yes, you tied him up tight, but one swift tug and he won’t be bound.

You wait to see if his hands will join you.

They do not, so you keep going. You grip his waist with ten fingers, easing forward more carefully than you did even with fingers. Geralt does his best to accomodate you, but eventually does his best to shift his weight onto his knees. He props himself up until he’s comfortable, until your lap holds his hips. 

“Fuck,” he grunts when there’s nothing more for him to take.

All of you is warm, soft to the touch and painfully human. You stay still for a minute, letting him adjust. Letting him breathe. You return to your initial exploration of his scars, now with an added distraction. 

“It feels all right?” you ask. He hums. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” he replies. Which he knows is what you’re looking for, “It’s good.” 

“You’ll break your neck trying to look at me, love,” you say. He bears witness to that brilliant, fond grin. “We should get a mirror for next time. Mostly so I can see your face, you look nice when you’re occupied.” 

He curses again because he can’t form a witty response. Not when you’ve begun to rock your hips against his. Shallow, slow thrusts, not the sort of strikes to draw sparks. You begin the same way every time, safe and gentle. You approach lovemaking with a natural, intelligent kindness.

His hair falls in his eyes and you’re in no mood to right it. Say what he will about his emotions, what you will about his scars. He’s so handsome. 

You wish you could tell him things that he’d listen to. As far as you know he doesn’t tune you out, but he’s closed his eyes. There’s hesitation in the face of him settling in. You could do the very same, even with relish.

But you feel an urge, a desire to retract your earlier disconnect. Even if that’s what he can stand you for, it feels incorrect. Dismissive and incorrect when he’s so very worthy of adoration.

Even when you’re intimate, it’s never the time to tell him that his love is enough for you. That you find comfort in the skin he has, marked as it may be. 

At least he’s only ruthless when he has a need. There is something else to him, something other than monster. Though he refuses the sound of his own voice he lets his guard slip. And you are grateful for the sight of it.

He keeps a hand tucked around the end of your sash, like he might pull. But he has enough in him to trust that you won’t hurt him enough to need to. There is no doubt in your mind for a few, precious seconds that he loves you in return. 

You fuck him to keep from thinking about it, all the time hoping Geralt might at least, in some way know how much he means to you. And that you’re serious about the mirror.


End file.
